


turn, smile, shift, repeat

by insunshine



Category: Bandom
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:21:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d been home-schooled his whole life, with religious appreciation classes and church group after the mandatory eight-hour days. The musician thing had happened as an accident, a lark; fresh off his mission promoting religious education through music in Africa, he’d been at a state fair, of all places, singing with his siblings when a producer had approached him out of the blue, waving around the prospect of a record deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	turn, smile, shift, repeat

**Author's Note:**

> THIS STORY IS INCOMPLETE and I have no plans to continue it. It's rare that I ever really like my writing, especially not nearly three years later, but there's a certain sweetness to this that I didn't want to leave languishing in the archives forever.
> 
> If you're interested in knowing where the story would have likely continued to, please check the end notes.

The guitarist in the opening band has been staring at Brendon for three days now. He doesn't even know the guy’s name, but it's starting to get under his skin and if it’s an assessment, he’s pretty sure he’s failing. He hasn’t really mingled with the openers yet and sure, there’s always speculation at the beginning of tour, but there’s never been anything this blatant.

“Hey,” Shane says when Brendon finds him, calm as ever and drinking a beer, even though it’s ten in the morning. He’s texting something one-handed on his Blackberry and absently flicking with the tab on the can. Shane is probably the most laid back head-of-security Brendon’s ever met. “Everything copacetic?”

Brendon swallows, resisting the urge to yank at his collar. His mother used to hate when he did it, because it stretched out his shirts, but it’s a nervous habit he’s never been able to shake. He clears his throat.

“Um,” he says, stalling for time. “Hey. You know that band?” 

It would be a dumb question even if they weren’t on tour, but considering they are, Shane just raises his brows. Brendon avoids making eye-contact. This kind of stuff always makes his stomach hurt.

Shane flicks his eyes up, stretching out against the side of the bus. He smiles easily, it comes naturally to him, and he says, “I know lots of bands, Brendon,” no condescension in his voice at all. “Which one were you wondering about?”

Brendon clears his throat again, scratching his nails against his neck. “The, um. Something League?”

Shane raises both his brows. “Summer?” he asks, and Brendon blinks at him, uncomprehending for a moment.

He gets it eventually. “Oh!” He blushes again, feeling like a kid and an idiot, but Shane is too nice and too well-paid to mention it. “The Summer League. Yeah. Yes.”

Shane leans back on his heels, setting his beer down on the lowest of the bus steps, and crosses his arms casually. 

“Is there a problem with The Summer League I should know about? They seem like okay guys, so far.” He doesn’t do anything different, doesn’t move at all, but he somehow manages looks more menacing all the same. Brendon watches the transformation happen all the time, but he still gets surprised by it. “Do I need to have a talk with them?”

Brendon can’t help it; reaches up and starts to yank at the collar of his t-shirt, anxiety flowing. 

“No! I mean. They’re fine, I don’t.” He tugs harder, feeling the thin cotton stretch under his fingers. “I haven’t really talked to, you know.” 

He scratches his neck again wonders how to bring up something as awkward as, _I think their guitarist is staring at me? But I can’t figure out what the heck his deal is and it’s kind of getting on my nerves._

He’d been home-schooled his whole life, with religious appreciation classes and church group after the mandatory eight-hour days. The musician thing had happened as an accident, a lark; fresh off his mission promoting religious education through music in Africa, he’d been at a state fair, of all places, singing with his siblings when a producer had approached him out of the blue, waving around the prospect of a record deal.

He’d have been crazy not to take it, but it’s still the most rebellious thing he’s ever done.

“Brendon,” Shane repeats himself, and Brendon snaps his gaze up. “Is there a problem?”

This is Brendon’s fourth tour, and his third with Shane. It’s the first time he’s headlined, though, and they don’t usually have secrets, but the words still get stuck in his throat. 

“No!” He says, way too quickly. “No, no problem. I was just, uh. I had seen two of them around,” is what he settles on eventually. “And I didn’t know their names.”

“You want to know their names?” Shane asks, amused. It’s just an added quirk to his brow and smirk on his lips, but Brendon can tell anyway.

“Um,” Brendon says. “Sure, I guess. Yes.”

;;;

Brendon’s never shied away from performing in front of a crowd in his life. It started when he was a kid showboating in front of his parents and their neighbors, in front of anyone he could get to sit still long enough for a song. The crowds that come out to his shows aren’t what scares him, although sometimes he does have to practice Shane’s meditation exercises before he can even think about getting on stage. What gets him most nights is the niggling fear that he’s not doing the right thing—that pursuing a career in music away from the church is the worst decision he could have made.

It doesn’t help that he hasn’t seen his family in almost a year, but Brendon is a cheerful guy. He tries not to think about it.

He’s wandering around backstage before soundcheck Friday when he runs right into the drummer from The Summer League, tripping over his untied shoelaces and a naturally inability to walk straight.

“Hey, man,” the guy says, and Brendon scrambles to remember his name, even though Shane had told him and they’d been properly introduced two weeks ago at the beginning of the tour. “You okay?” He smiles friendly, and his eyes are warmer than Brendon’s expecting.

“Nerves,” Brendon bites out, and then he laughs, because it’s not that entirely, but that’s not entirely true either. “Sort of. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“Maybe chill on the Red Bull,” the drummer says, gesturing toward Brendon’s can, and Brendon laughs again, because Shane says that all the time, too.

“It’s a rebellion thing,” Brendon says, leaning forward on a whisper, even though his parents don’t tour with him and there isn’t anyone to report his sins to. “I never got to have caffeine as a kid. Or, like.” He shrugs, the words coming out quickly. “Any sugar at all. We weren’t allowed, so like. Tour.”

The drummer laughs, shaking his head a little. His eyes crinkle. “Yeah,” he says, bumping their shoulders together. “Tour. I totally get it.”

Brendon smiles at him, and says, “Brendon,” resisting the urge to point to himself awkwardly and sticking his hand out to shake instead. It’s more formal, but it gets his point out, at least.

“Nice to meet you again, Brendon,” the drummer says, and then points to himself without bothering to shake. “I’m Spencer.” His smile dims for a second, for so little time that if Brendon weren’t paying attention, he’d have missed it. “From The Summer League. I drum.”

Brendon blurts, “I know,” because occasionally he doesn’t have control over his mouth. Spencer just laughs again.

“Sticks tip you off?”

“You really can’t miss them.”

From his pocket, Spencer’s phone buzzes, and his smile dims again as he checks the message. 

“I gotta motor,” he says eventually, but when he looks up at Brendon again, he seems genuinely apologetic. “You should come hang out sometime, though. Our bus probably isn’t as swank as yours, but it’s cool. Playing Guitar Hero is more fun with two people anyway.”

Brendon clears his throat and says, “But don’t you, uh,” and then gets lost in the middle. He has to clear his throat again before he asks, “Your band doesn’t like Guitar Hero?”

Spencer snorts, his smile curling up at the corners. “Brent plays sometimes, but Ryan? Ry’s an _artiste_ , man. Guitar Hero sort of fucks with that notion.” The swear trips off his tongue like it’s nothing, and Brendon is twenty-three, but he still saves it for later anyway.

“I’ll do that,” he says, and Spencer smiles at him again as he ambles away, drum sticks tucked in his pocket, a mirror of Brendon’s own.

;;;

Every Monday, Brendon calls his mom. He stands in the very corner of his bus, as far away from the bunks as possible, even though Shane makes himself scarce anyway and doesn’t ever ask any questions that Brendon doesn’t want to answer.

His mom answers on the third ring, breaths shallow, like she wasn’t expecting the call, even though Brendon’s been calling on Mondays on every tour since he started. “Hi, Mom,” he says when he hears the click of the line and waits for her to answer.

“Your nephew won first place in swimming,” she says eventually, and they’re off, Brendon asking the questions he’s allowed, searching for any hidden meaning in her answers.

After a while, he says, “How’s, uh.” He tugs at the collar of his shirt. “Is Dad there?” He hasn’t spoken to his father for months, but he keeps trying. One of them has to.

She hums, and he imagines her rigid posture, tucked against the wall in their kitchen, the phone cord wound tight around her wrist. 

“He’s still at the site, Brendon,” she says eventually, voice even. It’s early enough in the evening in Nevada that it’s plausible, and Brendon lets out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. He’s relieved. He has no idea what he’d even say.

“Tell him I called, please,” he says, because intent has to count for something, and he genuinely does miss his father.

“Of course,” she offers, and they hang up without formal goodbyes.

Eventually Shane comes out, brows raised like he’s surprised to find Brendon stretched out on the couch and watching _Encino Man_ for the hundredth time. 

“This shit isn’t even funny,” he says, plainly, but he says it with a smile, and when he shoves at Brendon’s shoulder for space, Brendon tightens his sprawl. “How many times have you seen this movie?”

Brendon considers it, yawning and grateful for probably the first time that it’s a travel night with no show until tomorrow. Performing is what fuels him, what keeps him going, but it’s nice to have a reprieve sometimes, too.

“A lot,” he says, eventually. “My brothers saw it with their friends when I was a kid, and they thought it was so funny that my parents wanted to see it too.” He smiles unconsciously, running his hands through his hair. “They didn’t think it was as funny, obviously, but at that point, like. Kara and Kyla had already seen it too. It was like a rite of passage for me, and it’s a family thing now, I guess.”

Shane snorts, patting Brendon’s knee casually. He says, “But it’s about _cavemen_ ,” like he does every time they discuss it. “Doesn’t that fuck with your religion’s preconceived notions of how old the world is?”

Brendon rolls his eyes, shoving Shane off, but he doesn’t go far. They watch the rest of the movie together.

;;;

Brendon runs into Spencer again at the gas station gift shop when they stop to refuel in the morning. He has on ridiculous pink cats’ eye sunglasses and an over-sized hoodie that says Summerlin across the chest in worn white letters. When he sees Brendon, he grins.

“Hey,” he says, pushing the sunglasses up over his eyes to get the bangs out of his face. “This isn’t what it looks like.” He’s in plaid sweats that have definitely seen better days and what Brendon’s pretty sure are slippers, if not full-out Ugg boots.

“I’m pretty sure my sister has those shoes,” Brendon says, even though neither of his sisters would waste that kind of money on slipper shoes. He’ll have to go online after the show to see if he can get them both a pair of the most expensive kind. He has a disposable income now.

Spencer snorts and says, “Yeah? Pretty sure mine do too.” He looks down at his feet and wiggles his toes. “Come to think of it, maybe these are theirs.”

“That would explain so many things about you,” Brendon says, and when Spencer grins at him, Brendon can’t help but grinning back. Spencer makes it easy.

“Oh,” Spencer says, with a companionable bump of their shoulders. “You have no idea, man. You haven’t even seen the pink leopard print lamp shades yet.”

“No,” Brendon says. “But now I think I need to.”

Spencer grins again and says, “For sure. Any time you want.”

From behind them, someone says, “Spence, did you get—” and Brendon turns to meet the third member of The Summer League; a taller, quiet guy he’s never even seen off stage, let alone spoken to. “Oh,” he says, as surprised by Brendon’s presence as Brendon is by his. “Hey, uh. Hi.”

Brendon shouldn’t have looked at Spencer, but he did, and now he’s trying to hide his smile because Spencer is trying and failing fairly miserably to hide his own.

“Oh,” Brendon says, holding out his hand to shake, because politeness has been ingrained in him since birth. “Hey, man. How are you?”

“Brent,” the guy says, which passes for neither a salutation or an experience, but Brendon takes it anyway, smiling as brightly as he can.

“I’m Brendon,” he says, even though it’s more than likely Brent already knows. The tour is small, but maybe not small enough.

“Musical dynamo,” Brent blurts, dropping Brendon’s hand quick, and Brendon just stares as he stammers something to Spencer about beer and then darts away, out of the gift shop and presumably back to their bus.

“You think I should change my name?” Brendon says, three seconds before thinking about the consequences of making fun of someone else’s bandmate. 

He has guys he performs on stage with; a guitarist for when he’s drumming and a bassist because he doesn’t have six hands, but they’re studio musicians, hired to tour with him. He can do everything by himself in the studio, sure, but not on tour. He knows because he’s tried.

Spencer bites his lip and very carefully says, “I don’t know,” before bursting into giggles. “‘Musical Dynamo’ does have a nice ring to it.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Brendon says. “I mean, it’s all right there. My whole act. People don’t have to wonder if ‘The Brendon Urie Experience’ is a science experiment or—”

“That is not the full name of your band. No way.”

“Yes way,” Brendon says. “Well. I don’t really have a band, per se,” he shrugs. “Didn’t you guys get the memo? It’s just me.” He coughs unnecessarily. “On the record, I mean,” he adds. “Obviously there are other people on stage.” 

For the first time, the words make him feel smaller than he is. There’s a heavy weight to the practice of being an act in and of yourself.

“I think you should just go by BU,” Spencer says, trampling over any awkwardness in the moment, thumb stroking over his chin in a mockery of thoughtfulness. “I mean, first of all, your nickname would be BuBu, and what could be cuter than that shit?” 

Brendon tries not to laugh. He tries. It’s a valiant effort, but he fails fairly quickly. 

“But then there’s also, like, when people look past the adorable fuzzy bear preconception and the terrible Jesus haircut,” he shrugs and for some reason, Brendon finds himself holding his breath. “I don’t know, man. You hear about this kid that Pete Wentz found at a county fair or some shit, in some religious backwater and you expect to hear alt-country at the best or like, satanic murder metal at the worst, because... rebellion. But you’re really not bad.” 

He shrugs, and Brendon tracks the movement, trying to remember every word and also to breathe. This might be the best compliment he’s ever received. 

Spencer finishes with, “Your melodies are really tight.” and Brendon swallows, trying to remember how to speak. 

“Um,” he says. “Thanks, man.”

Spencer grins, bumping their shoulders again, completely at ease and friendly, like this is nothing, like he has casual conversations about talent and music and inspiration daily. Maybe he does. 

“No problem, BuBu,” he says, and then he laughs like that’s the most hilarious thing he’s heard all day.

;;;

They settle into a pattern; Spencer hanging out on his bus more often than not, watching stupid movies on the big screen in the lounge and playing Tekken or UNO when they get bored of Netflix. Brendon’s hung out with Shane a lot, with Adam and Suarez, sometimes, but never consistently and never as much. 

Spencer seems to genuinely enjoy spending time with Brendon and watching stupid movies or playing board games over the phone at midnight because neither of them can sleep. Brendon hadn’t realized how lonely he’d been before, and he doesn’t mention it, but he’s pretty sure Spencer already knows.

It’s early-May and they’re playing a fairground somewhere in Connecticut. Brendon’s at a CVS across the street from the venue, loading up on Red Bull and snacks when he walks straight into Spencer again, nearly dropping all of his purchases.

“Hey,” he says, backing up with a smile. “We really gotta stop meeting like this, dude.”

Spencer doesn’t smile back, probably for the first time since Brendon’s really known him. Brendon’s stomach knots, his brain running back through every interaction they’ve ever had, trying to determine what he could have done wrong. The corners of Spencer’s mouth are dragging down and he’s pale under his tan, unhappy-looking.

“Listen,” he says, voice urgent. “I know this is, like.” 

He grits his teeth, and when they’re outside, Brendon sets his stuff down on a bench, reaching over to press a hand to Spencer’s shoulder. He doubts it’s actually comforting, but he has to try something.

“Whatever it is, Spence, just let me know and I’ll help.” Brendon’s friendly; makes friends easily enough when they’re not his own age and there’s less at stake. Still, he’s confident in his friendship with Spencer; no one can watch that many hours of _Buffy The Vampire Slayer_ with impure intentions in their heart.

Spencer lets out a messy exhale, rubbing at his face again. “This is a huge deal,” he says, voice low and serious. He sounds wrecked, like he’s been up all night, and Brendon starts to think that this has less to do with him and more with the universe at large. He feels awful to be so relieved.

“Okay,” Brendon says, clapping his hands together, the sound louder than he’s expecting. It gets a smile out of Spencer, which is what makes it worth it in the end; the brief second where the corners of his mouth turn up instead of down. “What’re we doing? Who are we robbing?”

That makes Spencer laugh outright. It’s a bright, sharp noise that cuts through the gloom of his demeanor, and he lets himself relax next to Brendon, bumping their shoulders together.

“I don’t even know what you could do,” Spencer says, eventually, calmly, spacing out his words with worry clearly etched in his tone. “I was just going crazy. I couldn’t think of anyone else to tell and when I tried your bus, Sisky said you were out here.”

Brendon breathes deep enough for the both of them and says, “Spencer,” with a smile. “Just spit it out. It can’t be that bad.”

Spencer smiles back wryly, rolling his eyes and says, “Wanna bet?”

;;;

It turns out, well. It’s a bigger deal than Brendon expected, anyway. He calls Shane from Spencer’s phone, because he hadn’t thought to bring his own; still too unused to having one to really make the effort, and feels his stomach simultaneously tightening and loosening when he catches sight of Shane pausing at a crosswalk before jogging across the street.

Shane’s generally pretty laid back, but Brendon’s not surprised to see his frown as he tucks his hair messily behind his ears. 

“What happened?” he asks when he reaches them, not even bothering with proper hellos.

Spencer’s sitting on his hands, ridiculous pink glasses holding his hair back again, and Brendon’s never seen him look more worn out. 

“We can’t find Brent,” he repeats, voice clipped, and Brendon winces, even though he’s heard this part already. “I was hanging out with Ryan last night, so I guess I wasn’t really paying attention? But one of Greta’s techs said she saw him at the rest stop after Boston, saying something about calling his girlfriend? But I don’t. I don’t really know, and we can’t find him and now he’s not answering phone so he could be anywhere.”

“Could it not have been an accident?” Shane asks, voice gentler than the words themselves, crouched in front of where Spencer’s slumped on the bench like he’s a skittish animal instead of a drummer with a missing bassist. “That shit happens more often than you’d think.”

Spencer blinks and Brendon watches his face, the way his emotions skate across it. “I don’t know,” he says eventually, but Brendon’s pretty sure he’s lying, either way.

“I can, um,” he interjects, clearing his throat and feeling more awkward around Spencer than he has in weeks, especially when both he and Shane turn. “I mean, there’s a show tonight, right? I can fill in on his parts, if you want.” He shrugs with a forced casualness that he doesn’t feel and smiles with all his teeth. “I mean. I play bass.”

“Brendon,” Shane says, but Brendon’s not sure if it’s a warning or something else. He doesn’t look at Shane anyway, keeping his gaze locked somewhere around Spencer’s left ear and trying to keep his breathing even. They’re friends. This is the kind of stuff you do for friends.

“No way,” Spencer says, cutting Brendon off entirely. Brendon blinks at him, shock and horror blooming in his chest and coiling together tightly. “I can’t even.” He runs his hand through his hair, like he’s forgotten that the sunglasses are doing the job for him, and ends up dropping them down onto his nose by accident. “We can’t ask you to do that.” He lets out another shaky breath and smiles wanly them both. “You’re the headliner.”

Brendon clears his throat, and then looks at Shane, and says, “Um, is that something I can actually do?” He can’t imagine that it wouldn’t be, but he doesn’t want to make a promise he can’t keep.

“Brendon,” Spencer says, but he sounds tired and defeated, and Brendon talks right over him, because it’s easily done.

“I mean, because if I can do it, I want to, and if I can’t, Adam can, right? That shouldn’t be a problem?” He turns to smile at Spencer as bright as he can. “Adam is a great bassist, and he’s quick, too, he can probably learn all of the bass lines faster than I can, even—”

“Brendon,” Spencer says, cutting him off and sounding pained. His eyes are closed like he’s meditating, but his breaths are coming out shallow. Mostly, he looks exhausted, and for the first time, Brendon notices the dark circles ringing under his eyes. “It’s fine. Please don’t.” He makes a face, and finally opens his eyes again. “I just wanted to tell somebody, go through the proper channels or something, _fuck_.” He shakes his head. “If he’s lost or hurt, we’re screwed, but if he did it on purpose, we’re screwed worse.”

“He’ll come back,” Shane says, because Shane is a ninja in terms of solace and comfort, apparently. He leans forward, pressing his palms down against Spencer’s knees, and looks right into his eyes, like he needs Spencer to hear his words as well as see the weight of them. “Batteries die and people get lost, but eventually, no matter what, they come back again. He’ll come back.”

“Should we just—I mean. Do you think Gold Motel will mind doing an extra long set, or. How does that work?”

Shane flicks his gaze up to Brendon, smiling without giving anything away. “I mean, do you not want to play your set, Spencer?” 

It’s kind of hilarious watching Spencer’s face. Brendon would feel bad about laughing except for how this is a good thing. This means that Shane’s going to call Pete and somebody will be playing bass for The Summer League tonight. _Yes_.

“Um,” Spencer says, and then he smiles like maybe it’ll be okay. “I have to talk to Ryan, but yeah. Yes. Fuck. Of course we do.”

;;;

Brendon officially meets Ryan for the second time about three minutes until sound check. He’s seen him of course— _of course_ —but there’s a difference between seeing someone and having them stare at you and actually saying, “Hey, hi, I’m Brendon, it’s nice to, uh. I’ll be filling in tonight. For Brent?” 

Brendon packs so many words into a single breath that he’s not sure any of them make sense.

Ryan says, “Yeah.”

Brendon hasn’t really gotten a ton of time to learn the bass lines, but he’s been hearing The Summer League perform for the first month of tour, so that helps. Sound check goes as well as it possibly can, with less than a couple hours’ practice for Brendon and the show so close.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Spencer says, five minutes to showtime. 

He’s standing just off stage with Brendon, vibrating with nerves. Brendon can’t look at him for too long, or he’ll start getting anxious too. The last thing he needs is more nervous energy coursing through his veins on top of everything else. 

“You are like. You’re the best. I can’t even believe you’re doing this for us. It blows my mind.”

It’s the most nervous Brendon’s ever heard Spencer sound, and he says, “Dude, no worries,” because it’s all he can say. Pete okay’ed it, the venue okay’ed it, and sure, they haven’t located Brent yet, but they will. It’s going to be fine.

“No,” Spencer says, and then he laughs. “Brendon, no one has ever done something like this for me before in my life,” he says when he speaks again, eyes oddly serious for how hard he’s grinning. “Thank you.”

Brendon blushes, can feel his cheeks staining dark red, and he ducks his head before saying, “You’re welcome, dude, of course,” the words choking out of his throat like they’re mixed with dust.

From a few feet away, Ryan stares at them openly, brows raised toward his hairline. “Thanks,” he says, voice clipped, and then the lights are flashing. It’s time to go.

;;;

All in all, it’s not the best set of music Brendon has ever been involved in playing. It’s not the worst either, though, so it works out for the most part. The Summer League are the first opener, and when he gets off stage, Brendon has time for a shower and a burger from a place down the street, stuffing his face before he has to go back on stage and perform again.

The crowd had been great; vocal and passionate, and he loves that. He hadn’t expected the familiarity of the fans, but it’s there. They’re a month into tour already and almost every night for the next two months, he’ll get to hear kids screaming the lyrics to songs he’d written himself, going nuts in the crowd and dancing their heads off. He gets to _see_ that. It’s crazy.

It’s a quick walk back to the venue; the building visible as he crosses the street, and Brendon’s unwinding his headphones for a quick refresher course of his own music when someone speaks from behind him. Brendon nearly jumps out of his skin, heart thumping like crazy when he turns around to see Ryan there, smoking a cigarette on this street corner like he owns it, brows raised again.

“Hey,” he says. Ryan, apparently, is a man of few words. That would be cool if it didn’t just make Brendon want to talk more.

“Hey!” Brendon offers, and only winces a little at the volume. He tries again. “I didn’t see you coming out here. Did you get a burger too? I was starving after that set, and Shane was busy helping Zack so he said I could go get one on my own.” Ryan doesn’t contribute when Brendon stops for breath, so he adds, “Not, um. Not that I can’t go by myself, but normally, I like having the company.”

“Someone to talk to,” Ryan supplies, and Brendon’s grinning at him for a full minute before he realizes that it’s a joke or something like it; that Ryan’s making fun of him. 

The blush creeps up on his cheeks before he can duck his head to hide it away. Brendon feels his smile dimming, and starts to speak again before Ryan catches his eye again. 

“Fuck,” Ryan says, ashing his cigarette. Every time he speaks, the lowness of his voice takes Brendon by surprise. It doesn’t fit in with the rest of him. “Spencer says I can be kind of a dick sometimes,” he says, by way of explanation. “Sorry.”

Brendon blinks, and Ryan’s looking at him expectantly, so he says, “No, no, you’re not, uh. You’re not that way. You’re fine. It’s not like you’re wrong,” he adds with a shrug. “I do like having people to talk to.”

Ryan closes his eyes for a second as they walk, in a movement that’s so quick Brendon thinks he’s seeing things, and so when he eventually blurts, “That was a really nice thing you did for us,” Brendon’s already surprised.

“Um,” he says, resisting the urge to tug at his shirt collar. “You’re welcome. It was my pleasure, obviously, any time you guys need, don’t even hesitate to—”

Ryan chews on his lip, turning to face Brendon before he says, “I’m gonna do something here, okay,” his voice even lower than usual. “You gotta tell me to stop if you want me to stop.”

“I won’t—” Ryan leans over and kisses him right on the mouth; his lips pressed against Brendon’s for the entirety of four Mississippis before he pulls away.

“So thanks,” he finishes awkwardly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie before turning and walking in the opposite direction.

Ryan can’t see him anyway, but Brendon still resists the urge to touch his mouth as he mumbles, “Anytime.”

;;;

Brendon’s been kissed before. That’s all he can think about as he heads back to the venue. He gets dressed in record time, does some of the deep breathing exercises Shane taught him two tours ago and does his best not to focus on the fact that Ryan kissed him in the middle of the sidewalk in a suburb of Hartford. He goes on stage, plays his songs, smiles at the crowd to the best of his abilities and finishes a full fifteen minutes early because he hadn’t been focused enough to participate in stage banter.

Adam catches him three steps before he’s about to escape into the bathroom, and wraps his hand casually around Brendon’s wrist, like that kind of touching is in their repertoire at all. 

“Hey,” he says, brows raised like he already knows how skittish Brendon is. “You okay?”

“Fine!” Brendon says, voice high and manically cheerful. “I’m fine. Great. Awesome.”

Adam smiles at him, probably regretting touching him at all, considering Brendon has sweat through both his shirt and vest. 

“Well, Fine Great Awesome, you seemed kind of off tonight, which is ...really weird for you.” He bumps their shoulders together, letting go of Brendon’s wrist. “So, you let us know if there’s something wrong, okay?”

“I’m fine,” Brendon says, smiling. He has to keep smiling, because the alternative is too pathetic.

“Great Awesome,” Adam says, with a wink and a wave, before he turns back and heads to where Suarez is standing, waiting for him by the exit doors. 

They’re probably going to go smoke now, and Brendon thinks about following them, wonders what they’d think if he told them he’d done it before, too, that he isn’t as dumb and innocent as everybody thinks he is.

Brendon showers again at the venue, loading up into the bus with Shane after he gets dressed. He doesn’t say much as they settle down for the night, although he’s restless and can sit still even less than usual.

“You seem weird,” Shane says baldly, because he’s not one to mince words, and Brendon is clearly close to jittering out of his skin.

“I’m fine,” Brendon says, trying not to grit his teeth. “Why do people keep freaking telling me I’m not okay,” he means to ask a question, but it doesn’t come out that way, and for long seconds afterwards, Shane doesn’t speak, just raises his brows and waits for Brendon to continue.

He doesn’t.

“Okay,” Shane says, eventually, turning away from Brendon to focus on the TV again. They have cable on the bus, and there’s a _Die Hard_ marathon on. Brendon wasn’t allowed to watch those movies when he was a kid, but they’re some of his favorites, now. He hasn’t been paying attention.

“Okay?” he asks eventually. The volume of the movie is turned up high enough that conversation isn’t necessary, but Brendon can feel the silence between them hanging heavily anyway.

Shane raises his brows. “You have something you want to talk about?” he asks, moving like he’s going to turn the TV off.

Brendon has about a million things he wants to say, but he doesn’t, sinking back into the couch. Shane shrugs, turning his attention back to a time when Bruce Willis crashed planes for fun and it was awesome.

Their knees knock together once on accident, and then again, but Shane doesn’t move his leg away so Brendon doesn’t either.

;;;

It takes Spencer three ignored invitations before he comes to find Brendon, face set in stony sort of scowl Brendon’s only seen in reference to Spam products and early call times. He barrels onto Brendon’s bus like he owns it, and Brendon’s so startled by his presence that he drops his cereal spoon, splashing a mixture of Fruity Pebbles and soy milk onto his sleep shirt.

“If you’re sick or hungover or, like, in the throes of depression, you can ignore this next thing,” he says by way of greeting. “But if not, and you’re just being a dick, what’s up with that, dude? I thought we were friends.”

Brendon blinks at him and says, “Um,” and then, clearing his throat, “We are friends.”

“Oh yeah?” Spencer asks, holding his phone up like it’s evidence that they’re not. “‘Sunday, May 8th,’” he reads. “‘Hey man. There’s a great revival theater in this town and since Ryan’s still not talking to Brent, I thought I’d figure out a way to get them away from each other. How do you feel about _Psycho_?’” Spencer raises his brows, and suddenly Brendon’s grateful for the relatively terrible lighting in the bus kitchenette.

“I wasn’t allowed to watch horror movies as a kid,” he says, ignoring the rest of the statement, “so I don’t know how I, um. Feel about it.”

Spencer rolls his eyes. “‘Monday, May 9th.’ ‘We’re having a chili-off on our bus. Ryan thinks watching one episode of Bobby Flay’s ‘Whatever’-off makes him a connoisseur or some shit. Come by and be our taste-tester at the next stop. Brent won’t eat spicy foods and plus, he thinks Ryan’s trying to poison him.’” Spencer looks over and meets Brendon’s eyes, his mouth set in a flat line. “‘I don’t blame him. Ryan probably is.’”

Brendon clears his throat, trying to think of something—anything to say, but comes up blank. “I’m, uh,” he tries, but it’s useless. He has nothing left to do but apologize, but he can’t seem to find the words to.

“Normally,” Spencer says in a conversational tone that seems anything but. “Friends start to peace before the awkward favors, not after.”

“I don’t know,” Brendon rushes to speak, taking it for an olive branch even though it probably isn’t. “Have you ever had to wax somebody’s back before? I feel like that’s where I would draw the line. Or, like, having to help clean puke out of a drawer? I’d be like,” he holds his hands up to demonstrate. “‘Hey, man. Maybe we can just play bocce instead?’”

Spencer’s lips quirk, Brendon can tell he’s trying not to smile. He’s hurt, too, though, and Brendon feels like a jackass for that part.

“Who plays bocce anymore?” Spencer asks eventually, edging closer into the kitchen. “I would’ve ditched at the mention of Hop Scotch.”

;;;

So they’re friends again, not that they ever really weren’t. Spencer doesn’t ask why Brendon was being weird, and Brendon doesn’t volunteer that information. Spencer still drops by Brendon’s bus almost every night of the week, too, still extends invitations to his own that Brendon politely sidesteps. Spencer’s kind enough not to bring it up.

Brendon’s hit New Jersey on every tour he’s been on, and visited once with his family when he was a kid. It was nothing to write home about in the mid-90s, and it hasn’t changed much; full of strip malls with the same stores and supermarkets with lone carts lounging miles away from civilization in the parking lots. It looks almost exactly like home, which is what he says to Spencer, because wonder of wonders, he’s actually from Vegas too.

“We live in LA right now,” Spencer says, making a face as he sucks down his Starbucks Strawberry-something Frappuccino. He’s got a whipped cream mustache going on, but Brendon feels pretty good about not telling him about it. “Is it weird to miss mini malls? I mean, once you’ve seen one palm tree, you’ve seen them all.”

Brendon shrugs. “This is good,” he says, changing the subject as deftly as he can. It’s not particularly well done, considering he’s said this at least four times since they started drinking them, but Spencer grins at him anyway. He’s been away from Vegas for so long that it doesn’t feel like home anymore, but it’s not like he has a place carved out for himself anywhere else.

“Ryan was on this, like, soy kick a couple months ago or whatever,” Spencer says, rolling his eyes. “I don’t know. But the soy version of this was all he’d drink. And we all sort of got hooked on them.” It’s sunny, so they’re sitting in a little park across from the venue on a bench probably intended for people involved in physical exertion along the bike path.

Brendon’s as active as anybody else on tour, but through some quirk of scheduling and time-management, they’ve had the last two days off and he’s done nothing but sit and lounge. It’s been _amazing_.

“It’s delicious,” Brendon says, repeating himself again, and Spencer snorts, bumping their shoulders together.

“I spent a lot of time last winter trying to figure out the flavor story so we could make it at home for cheap,” Spencer continues, and Brendon laughs, because occasionally Spencer is really weird about food. “What,” he continues, flatly. “Don’t laugh at me. I’d be a cook if I wasn’t doing this thing with Ryan and Brent.”

“‘Flavor story’ is just a hilarious turn of phrase,” Brendon says, but he’s grateful for how heavily the sun is bearing down, and attributes the flush on his cheeks to the heat.

“ _You’re_ a hilarious turn of phrase,” Spencer says, and then they’re backing to elbowing each other and laughing louder than they probably should be in a public park.

;;;

Brendon hasn’t mentioned the kiss to Spencer. It’s weird. It’s a weird thing to keep a secret, but it was a weird thing for Ryan to do, and Brendon’s not even sure of the proper protocols. 

He’s never been great at keeping secrets, but this isn’t something he wants to make a big deal about. It wasn’t his first kiss. It wasn’t even his first kiss from a guy, and Brendon ignores what that says about him to focus on the fact that it happened and he still hasn’t told Spencer about it.

On their day off, somewhere between Ohio and West Virginia, there’s a field behind where the buses park to refuel. Spencer’s laying there when Brendon stumbles off his bus in response to a text that said: _When’s the last time you got to hang out in a meadow?!?_

Spencer grins when their eyes meet, waving lazily and Brendon heads over, already appreciating the sun on his back and the warm breeze filtering out through the trees. Spencer sits up when Brendon gets closer, waving his arms out.

“Who knew Ohio even had shit like this?” Brendon shrugs. The last time he’d been through Ohio, they hadn’t stopped at all, and the sky had been grizzled and gray. 

“Not me,” he says, settling down on a sun-warmed patch of grass next to Spencer. “This is some storybook shit, you know? I’m half expecting, like, talking deer and dancing mice.”

He pauses. Spencer has his head tilted, considering him, and Brendon reaches up his fingers to tug at his shirt collar before remembering he’d told Spencer about that, and there’s no need to show his nerves.

“What?” he says eventually, because Spencer’s starting to smirk at him. Brendon shoves at his shoulder. He has older brothers. He knows how this goes. “What,” he says again, but now he’s laughing too, and Spencer’s smile is in full bloom as they wrestle. They stop when Brendon gets dirt in his mouth and on his glasses. He holds up his arms shouting, “Fine, fine,” and then, “Victory!” Just to make Spencer laugh again. It works.

“No one’s ever gonna believe you beat me,” Spencer says, raising a brow, and looking at him, Brendon thinks that’s probably true.

“Sure they will,” Brendon reasons. “I must have shouted victory just now for a reason.” It’s younger sibling logic, and it’s Brendon’s turn to smirk at Spencer as he puzzles it out, frowning as he remembers he has younger sisters of his own.

“You’re such a loser.”

“You love it,” Brendon shoots back, pillowing his head against his arms as he stretches out to appreciate the sun again.

Spencer doesn’t say anything, but when Brendon opens his eyes again, he’s still staring like before, his mouth set in a weird little line. He clears his throat awkwardly and then blurts, “Um, so Ryan told me that he, uh. You just have to ignore him sometimes, man. He’s a freak.”

Brendon swallows hard, then blinks. “Um,” he says, chewing so hard on his lip that it bleeds. “What did he say.” 

There’s no inflection in his voice at all, it’s flat, he sounds flat and his instinct is to run, but there’s nowhere for him to go.

Spencer is pink cheeked and uncomfortable under the beginnings of his tan and beard, and he says, “I don’t want you to think that since I—I mean. He’s just like that. You either ignore him or you don’t.”

Brendon tastes blood as he swipes his tongue against his lip and says, “Sorry I didn’t tell you,” quietly.

Spencer socks him the shoulder, grinning like storm has passed. “Dude, please. It’s really hard to say, ‘hey, your best friend is kind of a tool sometimes’ to somebody. It’s okay.” He bumps their shoulders together. “Ryan’s kind of a dick, but he’s.” Spencer shrugs, and pressed so close, Brendon’s body shifts with him. “He’s a really good dude.”

“I don’t really know him,” Brendon says, mostly because it’s true. They’ve exchanged maybe eight words and they’ve been on tour together for a month and a half. “But he seems—”

“Man,” Spencer says, slinging his arm around Brendon’s shoulders. “This is what I’m saying! How many times have I invited you over to our bus? Come by! He wouldn’t be so weird around you if he knew you better.”

;;;

They don’t have time that night, but two days later, on a day off between Kentucky and Indiana, when Spencer texts: _My mom sent cookies, come over and partake!_

And Brendon—Brendon has to. He tells Shane where he’s going before he does, not because Shane ever makes him check in, but because it’s Shane’s job to know where he is most of the time.

“Finally going to play with the other kids?” he asks when Brendon mentions it, dropping his headphones down around his neck. He’s smirking like he might laugh soon.

Brendon rolls his eyes. “It’s just Spencer. I don’t think he really counts anymore.”

“Still,” Shane says. He squints. “This your first time over there, right? Maybe you should bring something.”

“What, like a present?”

“More like a foodstuff or a liquor.” Shane casts his eyes to the side, like there’s anyone else in hearing distance except for Adam and Suarez. “You’re all over 21. They might appreciate it.”

“You think?” Brendon asks. He hadn’t really thought about it.

“You bring them something good, they just might make you their king,” Shane says, and Brendon laughs louder than he means to, and heads out, making sure that he grabs his cell phone this time.

The buses are parked in a weigh station, so when Brendon gets off his, he’s unsurprised to see clumps of people sitting around in groups. He waves to Greta when he sees her, and she breaks away from the people she’d been standing with to come and give him a hug.

“Brendon Urie,” she says, holding him at arms length. “Who’d’ve thought we’d be here together?” Greta and Gold Motel were the first band Pete had him tour with, back when he’d just been signed, when he didn’t even have an album to speak of, just a collection of one-offs and covers he’d managed to cobble together.

“Not me,” he says, and she laughs, bumping their shoulders together. He’s not lying, though. Out of all the possible outcomes he’d envisioned after that first tour, none of them included doing more, and headlining one of his own, eventually.

“And here we are,” Greta says. “Together again. It’s like I can’t get rid of you.”

“Or I can’t get rid of you,” he says, and she laughs again, tipping her head back. She squeezes her arm around his shoulders and when she lets go, he feels colder there than he had before.

“Very funny.”

“I try.”

She squints at him, and finally says, “You don’t usually hang out at these,” she waves her arm to showcase the groups of people. “Are you finally breaking out of your shell?” The words are sharp, but it’s Greta and she’s teasing, so there’s nothing he could take offense to.

“My presence was actually requested on the Summer League bus. Sorry.”

She widens her eyes comically as she says, “Ooooh, now that is a hard invitation to come by. Who from?”

Brendon laughs this time. “How about none of your business?”

He heads off to Spencer’s bus, but from behind him he hears her say, “Brendon, you’re wounding me. I thought we were friends!”

“We _are_ friends,” he calls back, but he doesn’t turn around.

;;;

Spencer wasn’t wrong, his bus isn’t as fancy as Brendon’s, but it’s nice, in its own way. It’s also really obvious that boys live on this bus, way moreso than on Brendon’s, and they even have an extra lodger.

“Hey,” Spencer says when he leads Brendon in. “Sorry about the mess. It’s like they don’t understand the sanctity of couch space.”

Brendon grins. “Not many people do. You have to spend a lot of time getting a cushion primed just right.”

Spencer laughs, wiping at his hair with the towel slung around his neck. He’s vaguely damp, like he’d just gotten out of the shower, and Brendon feels awkward all over again for putting a crimp into his evening’s plans. He must make a face or—something, because Spencer frowns at him and says, “Hey, no, seriously, we’re all super stoked you decided to come and grace us with your presence.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says from behind them, moving so quietly that Brendon nearly jumps out of his skin. “You were kidnapping him all the time, but we weren’t sure if you were real.”

Spencer rolls his eyes. “Except for how you see him every night on stage, Ry,” he says, cutting into Ryan’s logic deftly.

Ryan rolls his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “On _stage_.” As if his point is obvious.

“I’m not a robot, I promise,” Brendon says, trying to smile with all his teeth. He probably looks demented. That tends to happen whenever he and Ryan share the same space.

“You’re the robot, Ryan Ross,” Spencer says, and then it’s like he’s with his brothers again when Spencer tackles Ryan and they start to tussle right there on the bus floor. It’s not particularly violent—Brendon knows what sneak tickle attacks look like, but it is surprising. He hasn’t been around his brothers in long enough to actually miss this kind of thing.

“Don’t just stand there,” Ryan says, his voice breathless when their eyes meet. “Get him off me.”

Spencer doesn’t bother looking over his shoulder when he speaks to Brendon. “Ignore him. This needs to be done.”

“Spence,” Ryan laugh-gasps as Spencer apparently finds his most ticklish spot; on his side right below his left armpit. “Stop.”

“Fine, fine,” Spencer says. “It would be rude to school you in front of guests anyway.”

“Like you even could,” Ryan bites back, but he’s smiling, and Brendon watches the way that Spencer grins back.

“I’m so sorry, Brendon,” Spencer says when he’s back on his feet again. “That was like. I don’t even know what I was thinking.”

“I’m the youngest by a lot,” Brendon supplies. “I know how spontaneous tickle fights go.”

Spencer chuckles. “It was imperative I win,” he says.

Brendon leans close to him, voice pitched low. “It looks like you did.”

From the couch, Ryan scowls at them vaguely, features set into a grimace. “I can hear you, you know. I’m not deaf yet.”

“Not yet,” Spencer smirks. “Hey, but you’re here for my mom’s famous snickerdoodles. I hid them in my bunk so no one could get them. Make yourself comfortable, man.” Brendon sits on the far edge of the couch gingerly, tucking his hands around his knees.

“You’re so weird,” Ryan says, which isn’t news to Brendon, actually. Ryan leans forward and flicks the on button for the TV, and then just stays in Brendon’s space, not even two inches away.

“I, uh,” Brendon says, but the only thing he can think about is last week in Connecticut and the weird disconnect of Ryan’s mouth on his. “I mean,” he says, eventually. “I know.”

Ryan leans in and kisses him again, flicking his tongue against the seam of Brendon’s lips. He’s there and gone again so quickly that if Brendon blinks, he can imagine it didn’t happen at all.

A second later, Spencer’s coming back out of the bunks, holding a huge cardboard box and muttering something under his breath. 

“I think that’s the biggest box I’ve ever seen,” Brendon says, because the alternative would be to touch at his mouth again or stare openly at Ryan or touch his mouth while staring openly at Ryan, and none of those options are acceptable.

“Yeah,” Spencer says around a grin. “My mom knows how much Ryan likes to eat.”

**Author's Note:**

> The initial idea for the rest of this was that Brendon would enter into a weird, sexual relationship/pissing contest with Ryan, but also start to form genuine feelings for Spencer. 
> 
> The conceit was much, much darker than the execution, though, and I think, at least partly, I gave up on writing it because I couldn't reconcile all the darkness that was coming with the version of these characters that I'd written.


End file.
